


until i tell you to stop

by veraglade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Books and Show Canon, F/M, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 16:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15912195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veraglade/pseuds/veraglade
Summary: Season 2/Book 2 AU. Jon is captured trying to break into the Red Keep to rescue his sisters. Joffrey knows exactly what to do with him and Sansa.





	until i tell you to stop

**Author's Note:**

> Have been meaning to write down this idea for a long time because I love stories where Jon finds his way to King's Landing.  
> FYI, Joffrey knows a bit more in this story than he does in canon, but hey, this is fanfiction. I've made other small changes too but they shouldn't distract from the story.  
> Also, Sansa is aged up a bit, she is around 14-15 and Jon is 17-18. Anyway, hope you enjoy it!

“I have a surprise for you, sweetling.”

Joffrey rose from the iron throne gleefully. There was never any good news when he stood up like that.

Sansa cringed inwardly, preparing for some fresh torture. She kept her head low, knowing that looking him fully in the eye might set him off. She still had the bracelet-bruises around her wrists, the boot stamp that was yellowing against her ribs. But physical pain was not that bad, no, there were worse things.

“Come here. Stand close,” he beckoned with a honeyed smile. She couldn't believe she had once found him charming. 

Sansa approached the throne on stilted legs. She stopped at the short flight of stairs and curtseyed low. “Yes, your Grace.”

“Bring in the bastard,” Joffrey cried towards the guards. He was practically exulting.

The doors to the Great Hall opened with a clang.

All the lords and ladies of court stood aside as the shackled young man clad in black was pushed forward.

Sansa wanted to turn around and see, but Joffrey was standing too close and she couldn’t risk it.

She did not have to wait long.

“Go ahead and look, my darling betrothed.”

She did. And she gasped. Louder than was wise.

She had come to master her reactions in the presence of the court. But seeing Sandor Clegane push her brother, Jon Snow, on his knees in front of her was a sight too shocking even for her.

Jon’s face was smeared with blood. He had taken a beating and he had fought back, by the looks of it. His hair was longer and his beard had grown a little, but otherwise he was the same Jon from Winterfell, the Jon who should be at Castle Black now.

Sansa took a step forward without realizing. Jon looked up at her. His eyes were clouded.

“Sansa,” he rasped.

Joffrey nodded at the Hound, who swiftly hit him between his shoulder blades, stealing his breath away.  

“Go to him, sweetling,” Joffrey beckoned with a malicious smile. “Tend to him. Rip out a piece of your skirts and dab at his wounds.”

Sansa clenched her fists against her dress. She knew that would be absolute folly, yet how much she wanted to go to Jon and wipe his face, ask him what he was doing here. She had never been close to him as children, but seeing a familiar face from home was such a comfort she felt tears smart the corner of her eyes.

“Well? Do you like your surprise?” Joffrey demanded of her.

Sansa lowered her eyes. “Yes, your Grace. I – I am glad to see my brother.”

“ _Half_ -brother,” Joffrey sneered. “And I didn’t bring him here so you could look upon his ugly mug. He was _caught_ trying to get into the Red Keep. Imagine that!”

Sansa trembled slightly. Jon had done this to _himself_? What sort of madness had possessed him?

“Tell her what he was doing, Dog. Tell her.”

Sandor snorted with his usual lack of propriety. “Bastard was trying to rescue you and your sister.”

Sansa’s eyes went wide. She searched Jon’s face now, not caring for the moment what Joffrey might do. But her brother wasn’t looking at her. His bloodshot eyes were glaring at the Boy King. Sansa had never seen so much hatred in his eyes before. Usually, Jon had been the peaceful one who had always resolved conflicts between Robb and Theon. But he was also prone to dark moods and days of sulking. Sansa feared for him. She wanted to tell him to lower his head, stop _glaring_.

“And who sent him, Dog?” Joffrey asked loudly.

“Robb fucking Stark.”

Joffrey turned to Sansa. “Did you hear that? Your traitor brother wanted to steal you away from me while he’s still got my uncle!”

Sansa was too shocked to cower. How could Robb have done this? It was madness. Send Jon on a suicide mission? And for what? They would have never escaped King’s Landing.

“It’s not true,” she whispered to herself. "It can't be." 

"It is. I volunteered," Jon spoke up defiantly. 

Joffrey's mouth became a thin line. He signaled Boros Blount.

When the kingsguard hit her with the pommel of his sword in the same tender spot at her ribs, she cried out in pain and collapsed on her knees.

There was a commotion in front of her. Sandor Clegane had to hold Jon down.

“Don’t touch her!” he yelled, trying to get at Blount.

Sansa shook her head, making an effort to upright herself. “It’s all right, Jon. I’m all right.”

“ _Of course_ she’s all right,” Joffrey sighed. It was a sign he was getting bored. “Now, what shall we do with your bastard brother, my lady? Flay him like the Boltons? Or perhaps throw his body from the ramparts? My nameday’s past, but I think we might throw another feast for the occasion.”

Sansa knew this was her cue. The perverse thing about Joffrey was that, every time he did this, what he really wanted was Sansa’s weeping and begging. He liked to see her softness on display.

She prostrated herself at his feet.

“Please, your Grace, show mercy for my – my bastard brother. He did not know any better.” Yes, that was good. Echoing his insulting words would gratify him. “Please, I beg of you.”

She could not see Jon behind her, but she felt his grey eyes on the back of her neck. Her skin prickled. Was he disgusted with her show of submission? She didn’t care as long as no one died.

“Why should I show mercy? He tried to take my favorite toy away! And on top of that, his blood is rotten. He’s of no use to me.”

“Oh, but he is, your Grace,” Sansa rushed out her words desperately. “My – my _traitor_ brother Robb cares for him very much and you – you might have more leverage over him now. You should keep him alive.”

She heard a noise behind her. Jon had spat on the floor. She closed her eyes briefly. She didn’t care what he thought of her now.

“Please, your Grace. I am only thinking of you.”

Even if Joffrey didn’t believe her, he liked to see her eyes swimming with tears, that sweet pink mouth open in supplication.

He smiled a brittle smile at her. “I wonder if you really do love me.”

“Oh yes, your Grace. Very, very much.”

“Hmm. All right. I might spare him and throw him in the dungeons. But you must show your love for me first.”

Sansa stiffened. No good could come out of that. “Tell – tell me how, your Grace.”

Joffrey jutted his chin forward. “Go and hit him. Hit your bastard brother. Slap him hard over the face.”

Sansa fiddled with the cordon of her dress. She had to think of a way to get out of this. The court grew silent, waiting to see what she would do. Could she ask the Hound to do it for her? He had shown moments of kindness, if she could call it that.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Joffrey’s nostrils flared.

“Your Grace, my feeble wrists would be no good. Perhaps Ser Clegane –”

“ _No_ , the Dog has already beaten him to a pulp. Now it’s your turn.”

Sansa gulped. She felt bile rise in her throat. It wouldn’t go down. She approached Jon’s kneeling body. His hair and beard were matted with blood. He did not tremble like her, he did not cower. He tried to sit up. She admired him, but she also thought he was a fool.

Their eyes met again as she drew nearer. Sansa could not read their intent clearly. There was anger there and even contempt, but there was also softness. She did not know if all of these were meant for her.

She raised her hand as she stood above him.

Jon raised his jaw defiantly, as if inviting her to do it. His eyes turned lusterless. There was nothing to read there anymore.

Sansa closed her eyes and swung her hand.

_Smack!_

The slap resounded in the hallway. It had not managed to hurt him, merely to carve an imprint of her palm on his bloody cheek.

“Again and with more feeling!” Joffrey commanded. “Or I will have _you_ slapped senseless.”

Sansa knew he meant every word. She saw Jon stiffen angrily before her. He was glaring at the King again. _No_. Sansa had to distract them both.

She noticed Sandor from the corner of her eye. He was clenching and unclenching his fist.

She understood. She made her hand a fist. There was a ring on her middle finger. _I’m sorry, Jon._

She hit him hard with the ring, aiming for his nose.

Jon gasped, in shock or pain, she couldn’t tell. A new rivulet of blood flowed from him nostrils.

Joffrey laughed spitefully. “Excellent! I had no idea you were such a sport, my Lady.”

Sansa looked down at her knuckles. They were dappled with blood. She wanted to throw up.

“How about you knock him senseless, eh? Use both fists if you have to,” he corralled happily.

Sansa couldn’t do it. She knew she couldn’t. One blow had already made her knees go weak. But should she disobey something worse might happen. She choked back a sob. She had to be strong, strong, _strong_.

She looked at her fingers and clenched them. She tried to think it was Joffrey’s face she was hitting instead, but it didn’t work. She couldn’t pretend he was someone else. Jon Snow had been singled out to her since childhood. She remembered her mother fretting privately about his overt Stark features. He looked so much like their father, more than Robb or Bran or Rickon.

And now their honest, loving father was dead.

Her fist trembled. Maybe if she knelt again, maybe if she begged Joffrey –

The doors to the Great Hall opened. Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King, strutted in confidently, followed by his swordsman, Bronn.

Sansa exhaled sharply.

“Now what sort of mummer’s farce is this?” he inquired sarcastically. “I don’t think I’ve seen this one.”

Joffrey paled with anger. “ _Uncle_. You are interrupting my court. I am punishing traitors. Look what the Gods have brought us.”

Tyrion Lannister walked up to Jon Snow’s battered figure. Sansa caught a flash of something in the dwarf’s features but it was gone before she could make it out.

“Hmm, most impressive,” Tyrion drawled. “Ned Stark’s bastard son. Aren’t you supposed to be at the Wall, or don’t tell me you deserted?”

Sansa could hear the soft strand of disappointment underneath the words.  She wondered why Tyrion seemed to care.

“Robb Stark sent him here to steal my queen, but we will show him, won’t we, Sansa?” Joffrey bared his teeth at her.

Tyrion shrugged, as if indifferent to the cause. “More a fool Robb Stark. But you realize, your Grace, he is an oathbreaker. He has deserted the Night’s Watch, which means he will be hunted and killed.”

Joffrey chortled happily. “I’d forgotten about that! Even better!”

“No…not better,” Tyrion mused. “He makes for a valuable hostage. We cannot discard him. The truth is, your Grace, _we_ must be the ones to protect him. We must not let him be killed.”

Anyone looking upon the King’s face would have seen a culmination of several conflicting emotions. Joffrey huffed and stammered. “But – but that’s – that’s nonsense! We don’t have to do anything! We can kill him on the spot!”

“Not if you want to win this war, your Grace,” Tyrion replied, undisturbed. “Cersei will agree with me. She will be wanting her brother back and you would certainly not let Jaime die, would you?”

Sansa couldn’t help but admire Tyrion’s ingenious machinations. The way he had turned the conversation in his interest was nothing short of brilliant. And he had managed to put Jon under his protection so cleverly. She envied his power. She reflected that she might be as clever too someday, if she had the same tools at her disposal.

Joffrey kept whining and complaining, but everyone at court could see his petulance had no real weight anymore. He had retracted his teeth.

Sansa almost cried out in relief when the guards dragged Jon away to be sent back to the dungeons.

She would go to the Sept and pray.  And then she would go into the godswood and pray again.

As she passed Tyrion on the way out of the Great Hall, she whispered a small thank you to him. The dwarf pretended he didn’t hear it, but his eyes shone with a strange glint. It said, _don’t thank me yet_.

 

 

Sansa couldn’t sleep that night. She’d exhausted herself praying. She had thanked the Old Gods and the New, but she had also sat alone in the godswood trying to put order in her thoughts, trying to come up with a plan. She had to see Jon again, make sure he was all right. She also had to tell him about Arya, about her disappearance. For all they knew, her sister might still be alive. But how to get a message to him? Who to trust?  Sandor Clegane? Tyrion Lannister? They would not stick their hand in the fire for her. Her lady maids were Cersei’s spies and Shae was far too cautious to attempt treason for her.  At most, she would tell her to bide her time and keep her head down. Sansa wished she was as brave as Arya. Arya wouldn’t wait. She would act, she would do something.

 _But then we’d both be dead_ , she reflected grimly.

She sat in front of her looking glass, staring at the girl inside. This is what Jon had seen when he had looked at her today. Did she still look like the old Sansa? Her cheekbones were more pronounced and so were the shadows under her eyes. Did he hate her now? Did he think she was a coward?

She couldn’t believe Robb had done such a callous thing, even if it had been for love of them.

She put her head on the dressing table and swallowed back her tears. Cersei’s spies couldn’t see her crying.

 

 

The next day she was not called into the Great Hall, and the day after that too. Normally, this would have gladdened Sansa greatly. She almost felt at peace - if it could be called that - when she was sitting in her rooms, reading or sewing, imagining herself elsewhere.

But this time around she felt only dread. Why hadn’t she been called twice in a row? Had they already _killed_ Jon?

No. No, Tyrion would not let that happen.

She stabbed herself with the needle several times just thinking about the many terrible things they could do to her brother. The small torture she had suffered would be nothing in comparison. She had never felt close to Jon, but now her heart ached almost as much as if he had been her best friend. Strange how being kept a prisoner altered your condition so profoundly.

Supper came and went but she could hardly put a morsel in her mouth. Shae placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You should eat, my Lady. You will need your strength tonight. The King has called you to his chambers.”

Sansa blanched. She started shaking. She almost spilled the wine in her goblet. She usually didn’t drink it, but she forced it down her throat now. Joffrey hadn’t called her to his chambers since the last full moon. Cersei had impressed on him the need to keep Sansa “pure and virtuous” until the wedding. But Joffrey did other things to her in his chambers. Or rather, he made his kinsguard do them for him. Beating her was bad enough, but he could do that at court too. He could not disrobe her at court, however. He liked her almost naked, he liked to see her on all fours in front of the fireplace, cowering miserably in order to hide her body. Sansa shuddered deeply at the memory. It had only happened twice, but she suspected on the third occasion he would have one of the kinsguard do something _horrible_  to her. And she would _die_. She wouldn't be able to carry on.

“It will be all right,” Shae told her softly, combing her hair. “Keep your wits about you. Don’t scream. Wait for it to be over. The King still listens to his uncle. He will not hurt you more than he already has.”

Sansa felt little comfort at her words. Shae didn’t _really_ know what it was like. Or maybe she _did_ and this is why she didn’t try to reassure her.

“I will choose a dress for you, something beautiful to please his Grace,” Shae murmured and walked away.

 

 

It was Sandor Clegane who opened the gilt-framed door for her. He did not look remotely sympathetic tonight, but as she passed by him, he nodded at her with the good side of his face. A weak sort of encouragement.

The King’s chambers used to impress her with their stately grandeur. Now they just sickened her. Every piece of gold and silver, the sweet-smelling rushes, the silk curtains, the opulent marble, they all felt like oppressive weapons against her spirit.

Joffrey was sitting in the antechamber in his usual brocade chair, a goblet tipping with wine in his right hand. All the Kingsguard were there, as always.

But as he flicked his finger at her to approach, Sansa noticed another dark figure in the corner of the room.

This time, at least, she didn’t gasp. She almost didn’t recognize him.

The blood and grime had been washed away from him and he had been given a servant’s clothes. His hands were tied behind him, but he looked unharmed. There were still fresh bruises along his jaw and throat, but at least he could walk.

Even from a distance, Sansa noticed Jon’s eyes burned with a strange intensity. He wasn’t looking at anything in particular. He seemed to have learned his lesson – don’t glare at the King.

“I was just telling your bastard brother that anything he tries tonight I will have my men do to _you_ , sweetling.” Joffrey smiled. “It’s put him in a sulk, I fear. Or is he usually a moody fellow?” 

Sansa clenched her fingers under the wide sleeves of her dress. “Forgive him, your Grace.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble.” Joffrey waved his goblet jovially. “We’ll cheer him up plenty, won’t we, my Lady?”

Sansa looked around the room, trying to assess the situation. Sandor and the rest of the guards were standing idly against the wall, not looking at them. They were near enough, however, to slit Jon’s throat should he try any foolish heroics.

“I asked you a _question_ ,” Joffrey snapped.

“Beg your pardon, your Grace,” Sansa bowed. “Yes, we shall cheer him up.”

“Gods, you are so _stupid_. I don’t understand why Mother wants me to marry such a useless girl.”

Sansa nodded. “I know, your Grace. I am unworthy of you. You should consider a better bride.”

Joffrey laughed. “Ah, you _do_ have a tongue when you want to. Trying to leave me, are you?”

Sansa shook her head fretfully. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jon shift on his legs. “No, your Grace. I love you and wish to be by your side always.”

He chuckled. “That’s what I thought. But you know, I keep doubting your so-called love. How shall we remedy that?”

Sansa bit her lip. “Any way you see fit, your Grace.”

“That’s right. Any way _I_ see fit.” Joffrey sized her up. “You look nice tonight. A little over-dressed, but nothing that can’t be fixed.”

Sansa sucked in a short breath. He wouldn’t – not in front of Jon –

“Bring the bastard over here where I can see him,” Joffrey ordered Blount. “Let’s see if he still has the scar you gave him.”

Sansa blushed with shame at the memory.

Jon was brought forth into the candle light. His eyes were stormy, yet glacial. His nose did indeed sport a jagged scar where her ring had been.

“That was very unkind of you, sweetling. Very unsisterly. Why, if Myrcella had done the same to me, I would have her killed,” Joffrey commented. “You really ought to have stayed your fist.”

 _As if you didn’t make me do it_, Sansa thought hatefully.

“The poor bastard is sulking because you hurt his feelings,” Joffrey mocked. “I think you two should make up.”

Sansa thought fast. “Yes, your Grace. I will apologize to Jon for my behavior and –”

“Did I tell you to speak?” he barked at her, making her flinch. Jon clicked his jaw, hands wrestling behind his back.

 _Don’t, don’t…_ Sansa begged. _Be still. Remember where you are._

Thankfully, Jon didn’t stir further.

“That’s not the kind of reconciliation I have in mind.” The Boy King grinned from ear to ear.

“Your Grace?”

“Do you know what they say about my lady mother and my uncle Jaime, Sansa?”

This was a new thread in their usual repertoire. She was not familiar with it. Joffrey rarely varied his taunts.  Sansa clenched her fingers hard. What did this mean?  “N-no, your Grace.”

“You lie. You’re a faithless Stark bitch. Of course you _know_. In fact, it was you northerners who put the idea in my uncle Stannis’ head.”

Sansa was breathing hard now. This was a brand new accusation and she could not make heads or tails of it.

“Please, your Grace, I know nothing about it, I swear to you, on my life.”

“On your _life_?” Joffrey repeated with a mad glint in his eye. “We’ll see how much that is worth. But if you are ignorant of it, I will make you _know_ it. Together with your bastard brother.”

Sansa chanced a look at Jon. He seemed just as troubled and confused as her.

“Step closer, the both of you,” Joffrey ordered, settling snugly in his chair. His smile was lecherous. “ _Closer_.”

Jon dragged his feet across the rushes. Sansa stepped forward. She could see his features better now, could see all the small scars she hadn’t inflicted on him. The ones he had gotten on his own. He was taller than her now, almost a head taller. His eyes regarded her with something like pain. He was looking over her features too.

“Not close enough. Closer. _There_.” Joffrey smiled.

Sansa inhaled a scent of winter mingled with freshly harrowed soil. If she reached forward, her hand would be able to touch Jon’s chest.

“Your brother needs no help giving into his bastard’s base desires. But you sweetling, I need you to open your pretty little mouth and kiss your brother. Kiss him until I tell you to stop.”

Sansa and Jon paled at the same time. They turned as white as snow.

**Author's Note:**

> Ouch. Apologies for the cliffhanger, but let me know if you like it?


End file.
